Strangers

by Carla Banks

  The small rain down doth rain.

  Christ, that my love were in my arms

  And I in my bed again.

  ‘Does he know…?’ Amy said.

  Roisin nodded. ‘We talked about it last night.’

  Amy put the photograph down carefully. ‘He looks like a nice guy.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Amy said after slightly too long a pause. She looked at the photo again. ‘I’ve met him at the hospital,’ she said.

  ‘I know. He told me.’

  ‘I don’t know him. He’s just been around. It’s so strange–there you were, and I didn’t know. Where did you two meet?’

  ‘In London. He’d just finished his first contract here. My dog tripped him up on the canal tow path.’

  Amy grinned. ‘Useful dog. And now you’re married…’ She looked from the photo to Roisin and back to the photo again. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. When I asked…I saw you leaving and I asked someone. I should have come straight over, but I was afraid…I thought, if she’s going to tell me to piss off, I’d rather it wasn’t in the middle of a party. What are you doing here? Are you working? You aren’t just stuck at home, are you?’

  ‘I’ve got some teaching at the university. English.’

  Amy studied her glass, her finger tracing circles under its base. ‘You trained as a teacher? That’s what your father wanted, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I did a degree in Fine Arts.’ Amy’s departure had made her more determined to do what she wanted to do, rather than what her parents had planned for her. It was ironic that she had ended up teaching anyway.

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Goldsmith’s.’ One of the colleges they’d planned on going to together.

  ‘I thought you’d study photography. You were a brilliant photographer.’

  ‘All I do these days is take snapshots.’ Roisin picked up the champagne bottle and loosened the wire. She eased out the cork, and the pop sounded celebratory in the silence. Amy picked up the glasses and held them to catch the wine as it frothed up over the lip of the bottle.

  Roisin raised her glass to Amy. It suddenly struck her as completely appropriate that they should have a reunion over an illegal substance. As their eyes met, Amy raised an eyebrow as if she, too, was appreciating the irony of the situation.

  ‘So what have you been doing?’ Roisin said. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘I was. We broke up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it was years ago. I was far too young. It was all part of the mess I was in. Roisin, listen…’

  Roisin didn’t want to hear apologies or reasons. She wanted to leave the past where it was and start again from here, but an explanation seemed important to Amy.

  ‘I’m not trying to make excuses. But I was a mess. More of a mess than I realized. I told stories–lies, actually. Even to you. I told you that both my parents had been killed in a car accident, remember?’

  Roisin nodded.

  ‘That wasn’t true. It was my mum who was killed. That’s how I ended up in a home.’

  ‘What happened to your father?’

  ‘Oh, he’d left years before. I don’t remember him.’ For a moment, there was an edge to her voice. ‘My mother married again, and she had another child. My sister. Jesamine. Jassy, for short. The marriage didn’t last. My mum met someone else. I was furious with her. We’d had a good life with my stepfather. He was the only dad I’d ever known. And I loved Jassy. I was ten when she was born. I helped to bring her up. That’s what it felt like, anyway. And then, when I was thirteen, my mum was killed. I thought we’d go back and live with my stepfather. He came…but he only wanted Jassy. He didn’t want me…’ She shrugged. ‘I went into care. I thought I’d never see Jassy again.’

  At thirteen years old, Amy had lost her mother, her sister and her home. No wonder she hadn’t been able to tell people the truth. ‘I’m sorry,’ Roisin said. It seemed so inadequate, she felt her face flush. ‘I wish I’d known…I made up stories as well. I used to pretend we were sisters.’ They had been closer than a lot of sisters she knew.

  ‘Me too,’ Amy said. Her face softened. ‘Remember our plans?’

  ‘Europe, then art school in London. Of course I do.’ Roisin often wondered how her life would have turned out if they’d followed those plans, she and Amy. Her with the naïve recklessness of seventeen that sees itself as fully adult, Amy, unstable and unhappy. Maybe it would have worked. They’d never know.

  ‘I left because I heard about my sister. I hadn’t heard anything for four years, and then I got an address in London.’ She looked at Roisin as if she was asking her to understand. ‘I had to go.’

  ‘Of course you did. I just wish…’

  ‘That I’d told you? I thought you’d never forgive me when you found out I’d lied to you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered. And why didn’t you come back? Or get in touch, at least?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘It all got very complicated. And not good. I got into some serious trouble. I was ashamed to come back after that.’ She shivered, then shook her head. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  Roisin remembered the reckless bravado of the seventeen-year-old Amy that had concealed all this unhappiness and uncertainty. ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘In the end. I found her in the end.’

  ‘I wish I’d known what you were going through. I would have done anything…’

  ‘I know, but it was probably best. You had your own life to sort out, you didn’t need mine.’

  Roisin shook her head again. She would rather have been involved in some way. ‘But your sister. Where is she? What’s she doing?’

  ‘She’s married.’ Amy’s face cleared, and she smiled. ‘She’s expecting her first baby. I’ve taken some leave so I can be with her. I don’t trust some know-nothing midwife with my sister. Anyway, that’s enough about me. What about you? Have you got any children?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you want them?’

  ‘We thought we might start a family when Joe’s contract finishes. He’s looking for work in Australia.’ When they’d discussed it, back in England, the idea was that Roisin could take a year out and maybe start again looking at the viability of her own language school. They hadn’t talked about it for weeks.

  ‘Don’t leave it too long. Australia would be a good place to bring up children. I’ll come and visit, I promise. If you want me to.’ Amy settled herself in the chair, her legs curled underneath her. Roisin had a sudden flash of Amy at college sitting like that in one of the sofas in the coffee-bar. ‘Your parents. How are they?’

  ‘My father died,’ Roisin said. She felt the sharp pain that time hadn’t really diminished when she thought that she’d never see him again.

  ‘I’m sorry. He was a nice man. I always envied you him. He was so…I don’t know–solid. A dad you could rely on.’

  ‘We seemed to fight all the time then. He used to say, You won’t be told, will you?’

  Amy smiled. ‘I remember. You never used to let anyone tell you anything. You drove the lecturers mad at college, do you remember? I can do it, thank you. No one was allowed to help you.’

  ‘Well, I thought they were pretty lame.’ For a moment, they were seventeen again, united in their contempt for the adult world around them. ‘God, I was an arrogant little cow.’

  ‘Your father liked you being independent,’ Amy said. ‘You weren’t…’

  ‘Like my mum? I know. He worried about her right to the end.’

  They talked for hours. It seemed to Roisin that they barely scraped the surface of everything that had happened in the last sixteen years. Amy had been in the Kingdom for over two years, which practically made her a veteran these days. Remembering what Damien O’Neill had said the evening before, Roisin asked her about the women’s movement in the Kingdom.

  ‘It’s pretty minimal, but it’s there.’ Amy bit her lip, then said, ‘I can tell you t
his because I know you don’t gossip with the Stepford Wives. One of the things I do is work at a women’s clinic that’s been set up in one of the villages. A lot of women come to the hospital in Riyadh now, but there are some…The villages can be quite traditional. The men don’t always let their women come in to the city. It was a pretty radical idea when it was set up. I think they thought we’d be helping women to have illicit sex. Oh, it happens,’ she added, catching Roisin’s surprised look.

  ‘I was just thinking about the students I work with. I don’t know where they’d find the opportunity.’

  ‘Oh, they do, they always do,’ Amy said. ‘And it’s a serious issue here. Even being seen with a man who isn’t a close relative can ruin a girl’s reputation. Fathers, brothers, uncles–they have more or less complete control of a woman’s life. If a woman has a good husband, or good male relatives, then their lives are OK, but it all depends on that. Some of the men…They can do the most dreadful things to women who step out of line, but it all happens behind closed doors. Everything is rumour. The veils aren’t just on the women’s faces, you have to remember that. You must have heard the stories about the police in Mecca chasing girls back into a burning school because they weren’t properly covered up, and some of them burned to death? That happened. Women are beaten for illicit sex. And we hear about other things…’ She shuddered. ‘You’ve heard about women being stoned to death for adultery in Iran? I’m told it happens here, too. It’s the law, but I don’t know if it’s ever carried out. All we hear are rumours.’

  It was hard to reconcile this portrait of medieval barbarism with the bright, intelligent faces of the students, and with Souad’s brisk dismissal of criticisms about the state:…what you thought you were looking at, it isn’t there any more. ‘So what happens to a woman who gets pregnant when she isn’t married?’

  Amy shrugged. ‘Who knows? We used to be able to deliver the babies and then let the women leave. We’d hand the kids over as abandoned. The state takes care of them, that’s not a problem. But now, if a woman comes into a hospital or a clinic to give birth and she doesn’t have a man with her, then we’ve got to inform the police.’

  So what would a woman do under those circumstances? Run away? Where to? Throw herself on the mercy of her family–if such mercy existed?

  As the light began to fade, a car pulled up outside and sounded its horn. ‘My taxi,’ Amy said. She stood up to go. ‘I don’t want us to lose touch again, not now. Let’s meet again, soon. We could have coffee, go to the mall? Whatever you’d like to do.’

  ‘Of course. Let’s make it soon. Phone me.’

  Amy looked at her. ‘Roisin, you’re just…I wish…’ Her voice broke and Roisin found herself wrapped in Amy’s impulsive hug. She could feel Amy’s hair brushing against her face, and smell the fragrance of a warm, spicy perfume.

  She hugged her back. ‘I’m so glad you came.’ When Joe got back, she didn’t tell him about Amy’s visit.

  When Damien got home that evening, his house felt strangely empty. He knew Rai was in the kitchen, and he called a greeting, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He went upstairs, keeping his mind focused on the moment.

  His copy of One Thousand and One Nights was on the table by the bed. It lay open at ‘The Lady and Her Five Suitors’, the story of the married woman who was trying to free her lover from gaol. She used seduction and trickery to imprison those responsible–high-ranking officials and the king himself–in a specially manufactured cabinet before the pair fled. When he first read the story, he’d wondered what kind of life the young lover would lead with this resourceful but distinctly dangerous woman. He could remember thinking that, whatever the price, it would probably be worth it.

  Amy.

  He stood very still for a moment, then he let the book fall shut. It was dark outside now. He could see the lights of the city as a glimmer beyond the mashrabiyaat. He had to go out. He’d been invited to a dinner hosted by someone sufficiently influential for it to be politic that he at least put in an appearance.

  Even before the events of the morning, he hadn’t relished the prospect of an evening among the ex-pats. They came to the Middle East only to huddle in enclaves of Westernization, spreading it around them like a disease. There were very few who spoke any Arabic, and a vanishingly tiny number who were fluent.

  They had no use for Middle Eastern culture and history. They thought they had the power, like the men in the story who did indeed have the power and who used it to try and force the favour of someone they thought was weaker. And the result? The king got his head pissed on by a carpenter.

  Damien put on his jacket and went out.

  19

  Embassy of the United States of America

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  WARDEN MESSAGE

  December 2004

  Avoid areas frequented by Westerners and avoid establishments at times when Westerners constitute the majority of the patrons.

  Keep your colleagues and family aware of your daily plans and ensure that they know how to reach you.

  In traffic, always try to leave space in which to manoeuvre. Do not get boxed in; always leave yourself an exit…

  The next day, two months after she had started teaching, Roisin found a message from Professor Souad inviting her to a meeting after her classes ended for the day. She had seen very little of her head of department since she started work, and wondered what had prompted the communication. Perhaps it had something to do with her non-appearance the previous day.

  Her classes went quickly, though she was disappointed that Yasmin, who normally assisted on Tuesdays, wasn’t there, and Najia was absent too. She had started looking forward to their after-class conversations.

  When she knocked on the door of the professor’s office, Souad al-Munajjed greeted her affably enough and offered her tea and pastries. ‘So,’ she said, ‘is all going well? How are you liking our university?’

  ‘Very much,’ Roisin said truthfully. She was enjoying the teaching and liked the students, who were hardworking and, now they had got to know her, friendly and welcoming. Even the austere Haifa had unbent a little and had said that she found the classes ‘interesting’. Souad poured the tea and listened as Roisin outlined the progress that the students were making. ‘So you are happy with the students? They are doing well?’

  ‘Yes. Some of them have excellent English.’

  ‘Yes. The ones who work hard. Haifa–she is good, is she not?’

  ‘She’s…making progress.’ Roisin had a theory that Haifa expressed her dislike and suspicion of Western culture by resisting the language. She had acquired enough to communicate, but made no effort to correct her errors or improve from the standard she had reached.

  ‘And Najia?’

  This time, Roisin didn’t need to be diplomatic. ‘She’s making excellent progress.’

  ‘Good. The students report that they are enjoying the class. They have been doing a lot of reading and discussing.’

  Roisin felt herself relaxing. It looked as though the professor just wanted a general progress report.

  Then the other woman said, ‘But now there will, of course, be changes.’

  Roisin looked at her in surprise. ‘Changes?’

  ‘You will do more lectures. We have many students who want English–you can lecture to all of them.’

  ‘Lectures?’ She looked at Souad blankly. ‘What can I lecture about?’

  ‘What you have been employed for. You will teach them English.’

  Roisin began to understand. She’d known that her teaching had been under surveillance. Souad had been happy enough for her to work in the way she was familiar with, but now she was being pulled back to more traditional methods. It would make the rapport she’d established with the students difficult to maintain, and would make her job a lot harder.

  ‘I could lecture,’ she said carefully, ‘alongside the seminars. But the seminars are important. That’s where they learn to use the language.’


  ‘I hope you do not presume to tell me what is best for the students,’ Souad said. Her voice was mild, but her eyes glittered.

  ‘Not at all. I’m saying what works for me, as a teacher. I find that seminars work best.’

  ‘But this is not for you, it is for the students. So, for now, you will lecture.’ It had the force of an instruction. ‘This is how you will do it.’

  ‘Are the students unhappy with the way I’ve been teaching? I thought they were enjoying the course.’

  ‘They are not here to enjoy. They are here to learn. It is not for them to decide. This is not,’ she gave Roisin a cool smile, ‘a democratic institute.’

  Roisin realized that Souad knew exactly what she was thinking, and had no intention of changing her mind. ‘If you’re instructing me to do it this way, then I will, but I don’t think it’s the best way for me to work with the students. I’d like to make that clear,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly.’ Souad watched her for a moment, as if she was checking for further signs of rebellion, then she settled her scarf carefully over her hair. ‘You say that Najia’s progress is excellent,’ she said. ‘Will she pass her exam?’

  ‘I’d be very surprised if she doesn’t.’

  ‘Najia does not pay the attention she should to her other work. If her English is good, then I think she needs to put her effort into her thesis. I have talked to her brother.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘So Najia will not be attending your class any more.’

  Roisin was speechless. Souad continued as if she hadn’t said anything unusual. ‘You know, of course, that Najia is the one who has been posting on the web site as Red Rose?’

  Roisin hadn’t known. She suspected that Najia’s exclusion from the English classes was a punishment for her expression of dissent. Souad was watching her closely. ‘The articles she posted…’ Roisin shrugged. ‘They were harmless discussion, surely?’

  ‘Najia is still young.’ Souad’s slight emphasis carried the implication unlike you. ‘The young can be badly informed. And foolish.’

  ‘In my experience,’ Roisin said carefully, holding on to her temper, ‘it’s the older people who lose touch with their ideals. Young people are often very clear about their beliefs, and very well informed.’